rock and roll musings by Tim Byrnes

A THANKSGIVING CAROL: LETTING THE TERRORISTS WIN

     There was a light snow falling that night, making the parking lot of the Amoco station a little snowglobe wreathed in streetlight. It was nearing 10 pm and I'd just locked up the store and was on my way home to walk Buster. My apartments less than 3 blocks away so I was home before I felt the cold. As I fumbled for my keys I was startled by the sudden appearance of the disembodied head of Sid Vicious, floating in the air but inches from my face. 'Tiiiiimothyyyyyyyyy, Tiiiiimothyyyyyyyyyy' he wailed in ghostly wail, his working class cockney drenched in reverb.

     Yeah, this is gonna be one of those......

     I shook off the apparition as the result of a turned cheez-doodle or something and entered the house, expecting Buster and the cats to run up to welcome me like a sailor home from sea, gone for lo these many years now, but was again startled to see all 3 of them in ridiculous costumes, looking more than a little peeved. Buster was wearing a buckskin dress and had a feather sticking oout of his beaded headband.

     "What the hell is this?" I asked, for I was curious, "Who the hell are you supposed to be."

     "I am the ghost of Thanksgiving past." Buster muttered, sounding mortified. To which he added "Boo."

     Bleeker Street Kitten (Scared-of-Patti-Smith) bounded off the top of my wardrobe in a turkey suit, similar to the one Paul Simon wore on Saturday Night Live years ago, singing 'Still Crazy After All These Years'. He spread the costume's foam and feather wings like a glider and hollered

"I am the ghost of Thanksgiving....splat."  Well, he didn't actually say 'splat', but that's what it sounded like when he crashed into the couch, forgetting that turkeys can't fly. He raised his little head and got out the word 'present' before passing out. I checked on him and he was OK. A little battered perhaps and definetly out of the flying business, but OK. Suddenly the refrigerator door flew open, filling my little studio apartment with an eerie light. A shadowy figure emerged on a cloud of dry ice, like Ozzy Osbourne or some other professional wrestler. It was, of course, MacDougal X. Cheese, dressed in white jodphurs, a florid crimson tunic bedecked with fictional war medals, a monocle, a pith helmet and a flaming croquet mallet.

     'Who are you supposed to be and put out that hammer!" I said.

      'I am *blowing sounds* I, uh, am... *more blowing sounds* that is I am.. *frantic blowing sounds followed by howling as MacDougal's tail catches fire* I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A GENERALLY MAJOR MALADY, uh no, that's not it...I AM THE MOODY MYTLE OF A MADRESS GINGHAM OVERALL.... YAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

     At which point he hopped on the stove, sat in a pot of water, causing steam to rise and fill the kitchen. I heard  his sigh of relief and had to laugh when he fell asleep in the bath.

    So with both cats down for the count it was up to Buster, noble Buster, to explain to me the true meaning of Thanksgiving. I turned to my terrier friend and opened my heart and soul to enlightenment.

    "Beats the heck out of me. Can I take off this dress now?"

     "Yes, please.' I answered, "Man what kind of dream sequence is this?"

     I took my jacket off, turned on the tv and lit a cigarette. Lying back on my couch, I surveyed the room and saw my 3 furry friends all sleeping peacefully, a little beaten up but happy. I was touched by their thoughfulness and tickled by their execution of their little 'passion play' and I realized that I was pretty happy, too. I turned to PBS  and just as the Killers were coming on 'Austin City Limits' Buster opened one eye and said.

     "Wait till ya see what we got planned for Christmas."

Posted by: timbyrnes at 17:56 | link | comments

Comments: